


dream of making our escape

by livethekind



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:27:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livethekind/pseuds/livethekind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technically, without a timeline to exist in, he was nothing. Dave Strider was a dead man, a man who walked the earth on borrowed legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dream of making our escape

He always fought for what he thought was right. Even when he knew he couldn’t be saved, Dave Strider always tried to do his best by people. Of course, he never mentioned it -- what kind of person who prided themselves on irony would want to be sincere? He wanted to help people. He wanted to be -- no. He was never the hero, not with his attitude and hesitations. Cynicism came naturally to him, instead of the overflowing optimism that kept John aloft. It was only too perfect that he was Breath, light and without care, the kind of innocent demeanor that heroes needed. Dave, well. Time was grounded in the mechanics, all about the details -- one could never be sure that it wouldn’t decide to suddenly cease functioning. The risk was in the hoping, the praying that you would never disappear into a place where time stopped.

Until the day it did.

Dave never really knew how it happened, not exactly -- he didn’t need to know specifics to see the bloody mess that John had turned into. Some idiot troll had decided to kill him, and that was that; Dave’s resentment ran deep as he stared into the shade of John’s world. No lightning bugs shone that night. He wondered if they even cared.

Later, staring blankly at the pesterchum screen, he cried for the first time in years. Messages flashed wildly -- Rose, wondering what was going on. Jade, asking for him. Telling him that it would be okay; she knew, she said. She knew exactly what was happening and where this would head. And although he wouldn’t like it, he would be the hero.

The word stung, and Dave frowned, wiping at his eyes underneath the shades. How could he save people if he couldn’t even keep his best friend from dying? And of course, he couldn’t save her either -- the light to his darkness, the solidity of the earth and green life and sunshine disappeared faster than he could imagine. Rose held out hope: _We don’t know what happened. She could still be alive._ He knew better. Neither of them could’ve lived for long, anyway.

Was it worth it?

He wasn’t sure. But he held onto Jade’s promise, skipping back in time to save them. Not the hero, but at least it’s _something_ , a glimmer of hope. A shard of light in the darkness, something from Jade’s words that still held true. He could save her. Or if he couldn’t, he would die trying. Her, and John, and Rose -- he wanted them all back. They were the light, he knew. The people he needed more than anyone else in the world. As he drew his sword one last time, it was like coming home.

\---

The light burns.

He's not even sure what it is any more, because time has stopped moving for him. Nothing makes sense any more. There was a time that he might have had control of all this. That time could stop and start on his command, slow down, speed up, bend to his whimsy and show him the secrets of life. _Not anymore_ , he thinks, falling into the abyss of time, the place that no one returns from. There was a time when he wasn't human, either -- and that burns most of all, the pain of returning to normalcy. The game had stolen away his life and given him a metallic one, a synthetic form full of data and reminders and rules to follow. They seared his eyes, reminding him -- _always reminding, the painful nudge in the back of his mind_ \-- that he was not the Alpha. That technically, without a timeline to exist in, he was nothing. Dave Strider was a dead man, a man who walked the earth on borrowed legs.

It's replacing him now, this light. The game doesn't need a construct that can't function, and so it's as if Davesprite never existed. But it hurts, _oh it aches_ , the feeling of being torn forcibly from reality. He screams, letting the light win, unable to move as it devours him. The feathers fall away, as if they never existed; he catches one to examine it and the data unwinds, leaving him with ashes. They always said the phoenix could rise miraculously, and what sort of hero of Time is he if he can't resurrect the dead? The wings fall away and Dave falls too, soaring through the endless light. The sword disappears, leaving the gut-wrenching feeling of muscles and organs reuniting themselves, stitching up the mistakes of the past, the unfortunate consequences of being superhuman. Finally, it's just him -- no more, no less than a human, than Dave -- as he hits the ground, the light escaping.

It leaves darkness in its wake.

\---

Walking through the dark never bothered Dave. Even as a small child, the dark wasn't what he was afraid of. It was the monsters lurking in his dreams that kept him running to Bro, the purple and the glitter of something in the corner of his eye. Once, he had turned to face it, his sunglasses left on the desk in a rare, young moment of certainty. The creatures had welcomed him, and his arms stretched towards them, partially in curiosity, but mostly in horror. They loved him, they said. He was their prince, the boy who could help them. The one who could save them all.

Flesh brushed against the skin of a god, sending shivers down his spine. Dave had woken up and shoved the glasses back on, unsure of what had just happened. Unsure of everything -- from the wrist he now gripped as if his hand were about to fall off to the horrified look in his face as he stood before his brother. Bro hadn't said a word; it was as if he knew exactly what had happened, down to the last whisper of secrets. Dave curled up next to him -- _not too old to be uncool, just old enough that they wouldn't talk about it in the morning_ \-- and left his sunglasses on, staring off into the distance. If he pretended they weren't there, they wouldn't be. If he could imagine that his dreams were full of other things, turntables and traveling through time, maybe he could forget it ever happened.

He wished so hard that he stopped dreaming of the purple planet, the people who seemed so friendly and yet behaved maliciously. The whispers ceased, though Dave never forgot what they had said, how they'd cried out to him.

 _help us  
we need you to help us  
you might not be the right dreamer, but we  
need you  
help  
us_

He wouldn't hear them again until he died.

\---

At least, he thinks, the darkness isn't so bad. After all, he knows where he should go. Dave walks with purpose, a little too fast -- it's been a little while since he had legs, after all. There was no time like the present to savor the feeling of having feet, even though he supposes he should be somber about it. He hears the whispers of the gods, the brush of otherworldly touches against his back. He's not scared any more. Fear's something that he doesn't have -- it left him when he stared Jack Noir in the face, when he knew he would die and fought anyway.

Fear isn't something Dave knows any more.

The gods guide him, cradling him in their embrace, and he stops, looking up at the black expanse. He wonders what they want, but calling out invokes only silence in response. _What are you doing to me? Let me out of here!_ Suddenly -- maybe it's not so sudden, maybe it's weeks, months, years -- he's surrounded by color, warm and welcoming. It's a kitchen, he realizes. A kitchen with a tile floor, the smell of something cooking. Warm light floods the room, and he can hear birds outside. It's not his apartment; like hell would any Strider be caught somewhere this respectable, doing something like baking.

Baking.

This is John's kitchen.

He looks up from the tile floor that he's entered and sees them, all of them. Every one of his friends, staring at him. Rose is sitting at the table, books piled neatly beside her. She's reading Lovecraft again -- Dave smiles slightly, unsure of where she got them from but knowing if there's one person who's stuck in her ways, it's Rose Lalonde. Five months in the game have changed her. She's older now, sitting a little straighter. And though she rarely did when alive, she's smiling now. John, _fucking derp that got himself killed_ , is standing next to the stove, mouth open in shock. He's holding a spatula; Dave wonders when he learned how to cook. And Jade.

She's standing closest to him, hands gripping the hem of her dress. All at once, Dave feels the guilt and the sadness at not being able to save her rush back, hitting him hard. But at the same time, he feels her forgiveness. She's not angry; there are tears in her eyes, and she's grinning like she might have seen a miracle. Dave looks at her, _really_ looks at her, taking in the faded sheen of her dress and the black hair that's managed to get coiled on the table despite Rose's attempts to brush it off. He takes them all in, his friends. His friends who he lost. His friends he thought he'd never see again. Suddenly, the pain and the light and being ripped from the seams and remolded, all of it seems worth it for this one moment in a timeless expanse. He'd scream a million times if he had to, to see them.

Dave -- _no longer Alpha, no longer a sprite, no longer anything special to anyone but the three people in front of him_ \-- wraps his arms around Jade and buries his head in her shoulder.

It was worth it.


End file.
